


In Case Of Emergency

by AceyEnn



Series: Femslash February 2017 [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/F, Humanstuck, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-21 13:28:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9551048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceyEnn/pseuds/AceyEnn
Summary: Porrim finds a familiar face at the tattoo parlor.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is one I might well continue at some point--no promises, of course--so I'm leaving it as a multi-chapter work for now!

Your name is Porrim Maryam, and you’ve done pretty well for yourself. You’ve worked as a tattoo artist--your dream job--for three years now, and you’re considered one of the best in the city. You have a nice little house, a good income, and a wide circle of friends, both with and without benefits. You call your mom every day (she’s so proud of you, she says) and have long Skype chats with your little sister (she says she wants to be like you when she’s done with college). Yes, life is good.

 

You get up at 7 AM, like you always do--the tattoo parlor doesn’t open till noon, but you like getting up early enough to do your hair and makeup and to eat breakfast at the local bagel shop and still have some downtime. You go about your morning, like you always do. You get to the tattoo parlor a bit earlier than you’re technically supposed to, like you always do.

 

It should be an ordinary day, and then, shortly after the shop opens, a girl you haven’t seen since high school walks in, pulling along a small suitcase. You’ve got an unusually good memory for faces, and though she’s far worse for the wear since you last saw her eight years ago at your graduation, you recognize her immediately.

 

“Damara?”

 

She looks right at you, almost startled. “Yeah. Hi, Porrim.”

 

Part of you is surprised that she recognizes you, but you suppose you’ve always had a distinctive aesthetic, and none of  _ that _ has changed since high school. You’re a little heavier, and you’ve gotten a bunch of tattoos, but the truth is that Porrim at 26 isn’t  _ that _ different from Porrim at 18.

 

You smile. “It’s been a while. How have you been?”

 

“How does it look?” she deadpans, and you feel a bit guilty. She’s got bags under her eyes; she’s too pale, too thin. It should be obvious.

 

It should’ve  _ always _ been obvious.

 

She walks up to your spot at the counter--you’ve got no appointments scheduled until four, so you’re mostly working the counter today. “I need something covered up,” she tells you. “And I need a place to crash, and you are the only person I know who has even the slightest goddamn chance of  _ considering _ that.”

 

You suppose she has a point, assuming nothing’s improved for her--and from the looks of it, from the scars on her arms to the fact that she’s clearly been taking piss-poor care of herself, things haven’t improved at all. 

 

_ I should’ve tried to do something. _

 

She’d been an easy target when you were in school together. Shy, quiet, seemingly a bit sad. Sweet, at first, but that can’t always save you in high school.

 

She’d changed completely at some point between your sophomore and junior years. When she came back from summer vacation, she’d gone from simply quiet to outright refusing to speak to anyone--at least not in English. The sadness that had always been there had been replaced with rage, and she went from being on the honor roll to skipping half her classes to smoke behind the school, to getting in constant trouble. And despite being one of the biggest gossip whores in the school, you never quite figured out what was going on.

 

She sure as hell didn’t tell you. You knew there was something about a bad breakup, but...that still didn’t explain half of it.

 

You sigh. “I’m so sorry, Damara. I can give you a place to stay, for the time being. But first off, what do you want covered up?”

 

She lifts up her skirt, and you see it--the word “SLUT” carved into her thigh, the skin scarred up so badly that it’d never fade away.

 

“It’s on the house,” you tell her.

 

\---

 

She leaves with a beautiful piece on her thigh--a tangle of thorns and roses. You can’t say you’re not satisfied with your work.

 

You  _ definitely _ can’t say you’re not satisfied with the faint smile she gives you when you’re done, or the “thank you” that seems to genuinely  _ grateful. _ The two of you drive to your home in silence.

 

You guide Damara to the guest room. “I’ve kept it furnished in case of emergencies,” you say, smiling.

 

“Thanks.”

 

She sets her suitcase down and flops onto the bed; you sit down on the edge. “Should probably tell you what happened,” she murmurs.

  
“Tell me everything.” And she does.


End file.
